She shifted into the slow arpeggios of Max Middleton’s solo from “Diamond Dust.” From countless listenings she could recreate the string section in her mind, lacing their minor chords through the notes of the piano. Jazz music, for Mayakenska, was the only thing of value ever to come from the moral and spiritual desert of American culture. It was a music untainted by capitalist values, at least the best of it was, played only for the joy of the music itself.
The piece worked itself to the finish, climbing to the final B above high C. She loved that note, the way it floated above the rest of the music,the sense of completion it gave to the whole.At last she brought her hands away, unplugged the headphones, and folded the keyboard again.
She’d slept well before the landing, in order to be strong and alert, and though the Martian gravity had tired her she could not imagine trying to sleep again. Still not reconciled? she wondered. Still waiting to find that perfect note, the one that would make sense of this undeniably brutal and imperialistic mission?
After nine months she had been unable to find any answers.The transport device and, more importantly, the antimatter generator, must not become the exclusive property of Pulsystems, It would mean not only the end of Aeroflot, but the end of Russia as any sort of world power.
There was a knock at the door and she said,“Come in.”
“Valentin is asleep,” Blok said.“Are you all right? Can I get you anything?”
They were questions, she thought, he should be asking himself. His eyes seemed to vibrate with nervousness.“Relax,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I think Curtis will accept the political realities of his situation.”
This was her fault, she knew. She had played Curtis off against Blok at their meeting, polarizing him before he was truly ready to make a choice. But she needed him, needed an inside man to take the load off of herself and Valentin.
“Do you?” Blok said.“I’m not so sure.”
He had been one of her most difficult students, a true political, a Komsomol member since his teens, with high marks in leadership and poor physical condition. She had done well, she thought, toughened him up enough that he had survived.
“It’s out of our hands, in any case,” she told him. Blok nodded, started to turn away, and then she had a thought.“Just a second. If you really want to do something for me, you could. Stay and watch things for a few minutes.”
“Of course. Get some sleep.You must be worn out.”
“No,” she said,“I’m fine. I just want to...to go outside. Just for a couple of minutes. I don’t think anything’s going to come up, but if it does you can radio me.”
“Let me come with you.”
“No. I’ll be fine.” She reached for her radio and called the orbiter. “This is Mayakenska at 15 hundred hours. Code Dniepr. Repeat, code Dniepr.”
“Okay, we have you,” said Chaadayev, the command pilot.“How did they take it?”
“Not too well.What did you expect?”
“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. Listen, you may be getting some weather down there. Everything’s gotten really hazy-looking
down to the south.”
“Any idea when it’s going to get here?”
“Are you kidding? I’m from Moscow. I don’t know anything about this shit. But it’s heading right for you and it seems to be moving pretty fast. Maybe in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Mayakenska said.“We’ll call back in an hour.” She threw the radio on the bed and stood up.
“Be careful,” Blok said.“If that’s a sandstorm you don’t want to be out in it.”
She hugged him.“You always worried too much,” she said.
In the changing room she tried on one of the American rigid suits. It fit well, but didn’t seem as solid and trustworthy as the Soviet model. She strapped on a life support pack and cycled through the lock.
For the first minute or so, she was distracted by the unfamiliar suit, by the vertiginous pull of gravity, by the rasping sound of her own breath. She had to pick her way through the jetsam of the dome, the ice bags and abandoned science experiments and rows upon rows of solar collectors.
And then she reached the top of a low rise, and for the first time she could see a horizon that had no human mark on it, an expanse of orange sand and dark brown rock and hazy, pinkish sky. She sat in the dirt like a child and ran some of it through her gloved fingers.
“Hello, Mars,” she said.
The wind swirled around her, and tiny grains of sand began to ping against her helmet.
Kane dreamed of an ocean full of colors, crystalline turquoise over shallow sand, purple where the sluggish living rock of the reefs grew toward the sun, dark, cold blue over the depths.
Ahead was Mount Arganthon, its hollow peak veiled in thin sheets of cloud; off to port he could see the powdery soil and dark green brush of the Cianian coast.The wind was freshening, finally, now that his fifty oarsmen were exhausted and the sun was within a hand’s width of the horizon.A gust puffed out the single massive sail in the center of the penteconter, and he gave the command to ship oars.
They rode the breeze into the port of Mysia, rich smells of frying oil, ripe fruit, and mingled sweat and perfume drifting across the water of the harbor to meet them.They tied the Argo at the dock and climbed into the city by torchlight, the Mysians in crudely dyed chitons and pepla swarming around them, desperate for news.
Over dinner he stared hungrily at the dark-eyed woman across from him, steam from the charred sheep carcass in the center of the table rising between them.Afterwards, the grease from the meal still smearing his mouth, his nose full of her thick perfume, he plunged his swollen, aching penis into her, holding her wrists against the rocky soil of the hillside, her heavy breasts lolling in the night air, her linen clothes scattered behind them like the wake of the Argo, her mouth open in a silent scream of protest or perhaps even pleasure.
When he finished, he rocked back onto his knees, sniffing the air. Someone was moving, below, on the path that led to the village spring. He let his chiton fall over his loins and crept barefoot down the slope for a better look.
It was Hylas, Herakles’ lover, done up in full kosmetikos, hair and cheeks dyed red, face blanched, eyebrows painted in, his hair full of flowers. He carried a bronze pitcher over one shoulder.
Kane followed him, irritated that the boy was wandering around unarmed. Hylas was enough trouble as it was, stirring up the other men, afraid to brutalize his hands with an oar, toying with Herakles’ unstable emotions. But he was the price that went with Herakles’ services.
Kane stood behind a thicket while Hylas bent over the still surface of the water.The moon was high, and Kane could see that they were alone, but his calf muscles were jumping and the air smelled wrong, smelled like rain though the sky was clear.
The water of the spring began to stir.
Ripples Kane could have understood, but what he saw was the entire surface tilting and swaying.At the same time it began to glow, an oily sheen like glistening fat, but with rainbow colors melting and turning inside.The air began to hum and Kane felt the hairs on his legs and arms stand straight away from his body.The Gods, he thought.They’re moving.
Hylas disappeared.
“Hylas!” The scream came from Herakles, trampling the path with the thunder of an entire army.
Kane stepped out in front of him, said,“Reese, stop!” not knowing why he used the strange-sounding name.
Herakles knocked him aside.As he tumbled into the dirt, Kane saw Herakles circled with a light like the phantom fire that danced from the masts of ships.And then Herakles was gone.